


The Testing Blow

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Trip [7]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fish out of Water, Gen, Imprinting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Enterprise is pursuing a dangerous man, and some Klingons might have information about him. With Hoshi out of commission, Jon needs Trip to communicate with them—and convince them they’re worthy of the information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Testing Blow

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            "How is she, Doctor?" Archer asked grimly, surveying Hoshi's unconscious form on the biobed.

            Phlox's expression indicated she could be better. "She'll recover, but it will take several days. Possibly more than a week."

            "We don't have several days," Archer reminded him.

            Phlox shrugged. "I'm sorry, Captain," he replied, "but I've done all I can to aid the healing process. She just needs to rest now."

            Archer turned away in frustration. To have come this close, then to have it all slip away—he couldn't give up just yet. "There's nothing you can give her?" he prompted. "Just to keep her going for—three, four hours?"

            Phlox gave the Captain a disapproving look. "Absolutely not," he answered firmly. "The risk of permanent injury, or even death, would be far too high."

            Archer nodded. He hadn't really considered that a viable possibility anyway, but he had to ask. Suddenly his expression turned thoughtful. Maybe there was someone else who could help. "Keep me updated on her condition," he told Phlox, before heading out of Sickbay.

 

            Trip was in the Captain's cabin—their cabin, really—grooming Porthos when Jon entered. That dog had never been so well-kept before in his life, and he was getting utterly spoiled. Which was okay with Jon, since he had always felt rather guilty about not being able to spend as much time with Porthos as he wanted.

            "How's Hoshi doing, sir?" Trip asked as he brushed the beagle.

            "She's very sick," Jon admitted to him, "but Phlox says she'll get better." He paused and added reluctantly, "But not soon enough." Trip looked at him in some confusion. Jon sat down on the bed to better look the young man in the eye, preparing himself to give what he hoped was a h—l of a convincing talk. "I needed Hoshi to translate for me at the ore processing station on the planet down there—there's a dampening field that would keep the Universal Translator from working." Trip nodded that he was listening. "Now Hoshi can't help me. But I _need_ someone to translate, because I _need_ to find out where Devarr was headed when he left here. The longer we wait to follow him, the more likely it is he'll disappear. And we _need_ to find him. He could hurt a _lot_ of innocent people if we don't get to him in time."

            Trip looked appropriately concerned. "What are you going to do, sir?"

            "I'm going to ask someone else to come with me and translate, tell me about the culture," Jon replied, meeting Trip's gaze unwaveringly.

            A more sophisticated mind would have figured it out already, but Trip was wonderfully unsophisticated. "One of the other Communications people, sir?" he asked innocently, scratching Porthos behind an ear. "Hoshi says they're pretty good."

            "'Pretty good' isn't good enough, Trip," Jon told him seriously. "I need someone with experience." He took the plunge. "I want _you_ to come with me and translate, Trip."

            The young man immediately started to shake his head. "I don't know what help _I_ would be, sir," he protested. "The only other language I speak is—" And then, like a sun going supernova, Jon's intent dawned on him.

            "It's a Klingon ore processing station, Trip," Jon continued, reaching out even as he saw Trip start to withdraw, physically as well as emotionally. "Hoshi said the warning buoy broadcast in a dozen different dialects, including the one _you_ speak. It's a good bet someone down there will understand us." He emphasized the _us_.

            Trip was still staring at the carpet, silent. "Trip?" Jon probed gently. He knew, better than anyone else on the ship, what Klingons meant to Trip, how terrified he was of them. But he also knew there was no other way they were going to find Devarr in time.

            The young man looked up at him, his blue eyes just slightly damp. Jon almost called the whole thing off right then. "You know I'll do it, sir, if you want me to," he answered somberly, without even a hint of recrimination.

            It wasn't exactly the determined agreement that would make Jon feel better about asking, but it was all he needed to proceed.

 

            Once he had gotten over the initial shock, it seemed, Trip plunged into the mission, becoming more assertive than usual. Jon wondered if he was somehow reacting in advance to the threat they would both no doubt be under as soon as they reached the planet's surface. Malcolm wanted to send down a team of MACOs, or at least come along himself, but Trip discouraged that idea—"A show of force will just make them mad," he assured them. "Better just the two of us."

            Jon landed the shuttlepod as near the entrance to the station's main building as possible, parking it among a half-dozen other small craft, mostly of Klingon design. Trip hadn't said a word during the whole ride. "Hey," Jon said to him quietly, after he had deactivated the pod, "are you okay?"

            Trip seemed to come back into himself, from somewhere, and nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."

            "Then let's get this over with," Jon decided, starting to open the pod door.

            Trip grabbed his arm. "A couple suggestions, sir." Jon looked at him curiously. "Act confident the whole time. Arrogant, even. Like you're a million times better than anyone in there."

            "Okay," Jon agreed slowly.

            "Don't look worried," Trip continued. "No matter what happens, just—look like you know exactly what you're doing."

            "Even if I don't," Jon questioned with a smile, trying to add a little humor.

            Trip's smile in response was grim. "Especially if you don't, sir."

            "Okay."

            They exited the shuttlepod and headed for the main building, out of which spilled raucous laughter and general crowd-like noises. Jon had thought it would be an office or administration center, but instead it appeared to be a bar. Great. The only thing he could imagine that was worse than a roomful of Klingons—a roomful of _drunken_ Klingons.

            Trip glanced through the grimy windows with trepidation, then seemed to steel himself. The change that came over his entire body, down to the way he walked, was remarkable, and slightly frightening to Jon. He knew it wasn't the _real_ Trip, just an unfortunately necessary façade. "Arrogant, sir," he reminded Jon, his face an icy mask of disdain. Jon tried to mimic it as they pushed through the battered doors.

            The noise level in the room began to drop as soon as they entered, as the patrons near the door caught sight of them and passed the news to those farther back. Jon had hoped that maybe there would at least be other aliens, other non-Klingons, frequenting this station, but from what he could see as he tried to gaze fearlessly around the room, he and Trip were the odd men out. Trip pushed his way to the bar, barely deigning to glance around him, and Jon hurried to catch up. By the time they reached the counter the boisterous shouting had turned to low whispers, accompanied by hostile stares.

            Trip slapped the bar top, as if he needed the noise to get the bartender's attention. Loudly he uttered something in the guttural language of the Klingons—it didn't even seem like his _voice_ doing the speaking, it was so confident and demanding. He added something to the end, turning to the room at large, and suddenly the Klingons _reacted_ , surging forward and grasping the daggers they all seemed to carry at their belts. Jon pulled back but tried not to look nervous. "What did you say to them?" he hissed at Trip, keeping his eye on the growling crowd.

            "An insult helps flush out the leader," Trip responded quietly.

            Great. Drunken, insulted Klingons. And here Jon had thought this might be unpleasant.

            No one took that final step to confront them, however, and even seemed to relax a bit as one shorter Klingon pushed his way through the crowd to them. He spat something angrily in their language, to which Trip replied in kind. The venom in Trip's tone was apparent even to Jon—he didn't even need the restless shifting of the menacing crowd to get the gist of what was being said. Trip and the Klingon went back and forth for a few moments, then the Klingon regarded them thoughtfully, suspiciously. Finally he jerked his head in a nod and started back through the crowd. Trip moved to follow him.

            "Come on, sir," he advised Jon under this breath.

            "Where are we going?"

            "He's taking us to the leader of the station."

            "Nice work," Jon applauded, although he was still somewhat dubious given the decidedly unfriendly glares they were receiving as they walked through the crowd. He tried to remember to look arrogant in return.

            They were led through to a back room, where a group of five Klingons sat drinking by themselves. The VIP suite, no doubt. The shorter Klingon who had led them there spoke discreetly to an older one, whose long hair had turned silver and white. He looked Trip and Jon up and down, his expression impassive. Then he asked them something in his language, surprisingly restrained.

            Trip answered immediately, the fury so obvious in his expression and tone that Jon was slightly shocked. Even when fighting someone he had never seen Trip actually _angry_. He wondered just how much of it was really an act, given the company. The older Klingon started to blow them off, or so it seemed to Jon, but Trip kept speaking, his voice almost taunting. The other Klingons at the table stood suddenly, ready to defend their leader against whatever Trip was saying, but the older man waved them back. He asked another question, this time openly curious but cautious.

            Trip's answer included the word "Devarr," and Jon couldn't remain on the sidelines any longer. "What are you saying?" he asked softly, still trying to exude confidence.

            "Told them we were looking for Devarr," Trip relayed, which explained not much at all.

            "Are they going to help us?" Jon pushed.

            The older Klingon shot back a reply that Jon guessed was something like, "And why should we tell you anything about this man?" Then Trip _really_ laid into it, leaning forward, pounding his fist on the table they were drinking at for emphasis. To Archer the language frankly sounded like Trip was coughing up a giant hairball—oddly, it sounded better coming from the older, and calmer, Klingon, so perhaps it was emotion that really added roughness to it. As Trip, presumably, laid out some kind of argument in their favor, Jon saw the other Klingons at the table glancing at each other—almost… questioningly. At a stretch, he might even have said… nervously. What the _h—l_ was Trip telling them?

            The older Klingon seemed to consider Trip's story for a moment. "Um, what did you say?" Archer asked Trip again, during the pause.

            "Told 'em we wanted to find Devarr and kill him because he was an eater of children," Trip replied easily, eyes never leaving the Klingons.

            Jon fought to keep his poker face. "You what?"

            "Old Klingon legend," Trip murmured quickly. "About a dishonorable warrior who was too lazy to hunt, so he killed the village's children for food."

            Jon hoped he was the villain of the tale.

            After several moments spend thinking over what Trip had told him, the older Klingon rose suddenly, speaking in a more declaratory tone. The other Klingons seemed to heartily approve of whatever he was saying. Trip replied to him contemptuously, gesturing to Archer and then back to himself. The older Klingon snorted and seemed to agree to something.

            All the Klingons in the room started moving, getting out of the way it seemed. This made Jon rather nervous. "What are you doing?" he hissed to Trip.

            Trip nudged him off to the side. "You just stand here, sir," he suggested. "And whatever happens, don't try to intervene. And try not to looked worried."

            Jon was automatically worried. But he tried not to show it as Trip advanced to the center of the small room, where the older Klingon stood stiffly. Trip braced himself, head up, shoulders back, as the Klingon made some kind of ritualistic-sounding statement, to which Trip replied with derision. And then the Klingon hit Trip full across the chest.

            Jon struggled to remain still as Trip went staggering backwards, but miraculously stayed on his feet. Gasping only a little, he shot back a furious rejoinder—which Jon had the sinking feeling was something like, "Is that all you've got, old man?!"—and punctuated it by spitting scornfully on the floor.

            There was a moment of silence, then the older Klingon started to laugh heartily. Trip was not appeased by this change, but the other Klingons started to laugh as well. One of them even slapped Jon companionably on the back, which nearly sent him sprawling. So, things were going well, he guessed.

            The older Klingon was making some kind of speech, which he ended by calling an order to the shorter Klingon, who disappeared from the room. Jon edged his way over to Trip, who was still as tense and stormy as when they'd entered. "Are you okay?" he whispered, not turning his back to the room.

            "Fine," Trip ground out. "He says Devarr said he only needed enough fuel to get to Calabria."

            Great. Except—"Where's Calabria?"

            The shorter Klingon came back into the room and was greeted loudly by his comrades, as he was bearing a tray full of fresh drinks. Also on the tray was a data pad, which the older Klingon bestowed upon Archer. "With—my—compliments!" he announced in very bad English, causing he and the other Klingons to cut up even more.

            "Don't smile," Trip warned Jon, who was feeling very much like he ought to join in whatever fun they were having. "Arrogant." Instead he narrowed his eyes at the Klingons and stuffed the data pad in a pocket without even looking at it.

            "So can we go now?" Jon asked hopefully.

            "Almost," Trip assured him.

            There were two extra mugs of the undoubtedly strong fermented beverage left on the table and Jon was afraid he knew who they were for. The older Klingon made an insistent gesture. "Take a sip," Trip advised, "and act like it's the most disgusting thing you've ever had. Then put the mug down."

            Turned out Jon didn't have to act much for that, as Klingon ale was easily the most noxious substance he'd ever been assured was edible. He nearly gagged on the one tiny drop he consumed and rejected the rest with authentic repugnance. Trip barked out something in Klingon, then chugged his own mug and slammed the empty vessel forcefully back to the tabletop. Then, he picked up Jon's and drank it just as vigorously. Jon felt ill just watching him. The Klingons seemed fascinated—and slightly uneasy. After flinging the second empty mug away, Trip left them with one final spiteful comment. The older Klingon chuckled and said something dismissively.

            "Now we can go," Trip muttered to Archer, turning him to follow the shorter Klingon back out into the bar area. The other patrons watched them with avid interest, but their guide gave nothing away to them. Jon suspected they would be the topic of conversation at the bar for quite some time afterwards.

            Instead of exiting quickly when they reached the door, as Jon longed to do, Trip stopped him and whispered, "Drag me out."

            "What?"

            "Drag me out," Trip repeated urgently, then turned back to the crowd and started berating them. Jon expected them to lunge, but instead they just stood there, a little shocked. Shocked Klingons? That was a new one on Archer. Not willing to take a chance that they might get over their astonishment, however, he promptly jerked Trip out the door and back to the shuttlepod, feeling the stares on them through the window.

            Jon popped the door on the pod and followed Trip in, then shut it firmly. "Okay," he demanded, "what the _h—l_ just happened?"

            "I think we should get out of here, sir," Trip suggested, and his voice wasn't entirely back to normal yet.

            Jon had to admit that was a good idea. He fired up the engines and set the heading back for _Enterprise_. Then he heard a slight wheezing from behind him and turned to see Trip sitting on the bench in back, starting to shudder. Archer quickly set the controls of the shuttle on auto and dropped down beside the young man. "Trip? Are you okay?"

            Trip shook his head desperately. "I think I'm gonna—" And he threw up all over the floor. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled miserably, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

            "Don't worry about it," Jon assured him, meaning every syllable. After the performance Trip had just given, he could puke anywhere he wanted. As if on cue Trip heaved again. The smell in the small space was unpleasantly familiar. "I don't think I could have stomached that Klingon ale for even _this_ long."

            "'S not the ale," Trip sniffed. "I'm just—I'm—" His whole body shook and Jon suddenly understood.

            Wrapping his arm around Trip he tried to tell him, "It's over, we're leaving, we're going home. There's nothing to be scared about anymore. You did it, Trip." At least, Jon _hoped_ he had. His words seemed to have little effect, however, as Trip shivered violently and started to gasp for breath. Jon feared he was witnessing something like a collapsed lung from that brutal blow to the chest. He got the young man lying down, curled up in a shuddering ball, and stepped back to the controls. They had just cleared the dampening field.

            "Archer to _Enterprise_ ," he signaled.

            "Enterprise _here_ ," T'Pol answered.

            "We're on our way back," Archer told her in clipped tones. "You and Phlox meet us at the Launch Bay."

            " _Are you injured, Captain?_ " T'Pol queried.

            "No," he answered shortly, cutting the channel. These days, it seemed, he had his own personal whipping boy to take his injuries for him. The thought was a grim one.

            As soon as he had set the shuttle down safely in the Launch Bay he went to Trip, trying to coax him back up. He was really struggling for breath now, wild-eyed with alarm about it. "Calm down," Archer tried to tell him in a soothing tone. "We're home now, the doctor's coming, you're going to be alright." He hoped he said it more convincingly than he felt it.

            A light on the control panel blinked, indicating the Launch Bay had pressurized, and Archer opened the door to the shuttlepod, trying to maneuver Trip around the vomit on the floor. Phlox and his assistant were waiting for them—Trip had a bad habit of coming back from missions in need of their attention. The young man was immediately foisted onto a gurney and given an injection in the neck before being carted off to Sickbay.

            T'Pol pounced the moment Phlox was out of the way. "Were you able to ascertain Devarr's destination?" she asked the Captain, bringing his attention back to the mission at hand.

            "I think so," Archer replied, fishing in his pockets for the data pad the Klingon had given him. "He's gone to Calabria."

            "Where is Calabria?" T'Pol queried, staring in bewilderment at the pad Archer handed her.

            "I was hoping this would tell us," he revealed, rushing her towards the exit. "Get it translated. I'll be in Sickbay."

            By the time Archer had jogged through the corridors and entered the medical center, Trip was lying shirtless on a biobed, relatively quiet. His eyes fluttered open and shut drowsily, as if he were fighting to keep awake. Jon joined him, taking his hand. "Captain—" Trip began, with great effort.

            Jon shushed him, trying not to stare at the huge bruise forming across his chest. "Quiet now," he insisted. "Don't worry about anything."

            Phlox returned to his patient's side, scanning and injecting away, making little noises to himself as he looked at his instruments. Trip lay on the bed quietly, still trying to keep his eyes open, squeezing Jon's hand. Finally Archer couldn't stand it anymore. "Well?" he demanded of the doctor.

            "A few minor fractures, nothing that won't heal," Phlox concluded. "No internal damage."

            "He was having trouble breathing," Jon mentioned urgently.

            "Panic attack," the doctor replied briskly. "I've given him a mild sedative. A little rest would do him good," he added pointedly.

            "Get some sleep, Trip," Jon told the young man, trying to smile. "I'll see you when you wake up, alright?"

            Trip didn't seem to like that idea very much and wouldn't let go of Jon's hand. Finally he couldn't fight the tranquilizer Phlox had given him and his grip slackened as he fell asleep.

            "Interesting injury, Captain," the doctor commented, gesturing to the bruise. "How did it happen?"

            Jon shook his head, still mystified by much of what had occurred. "It seemed to be some kind of—ritual, I think," he finally reasoned. "Take a blow from a Klingon, show how tough you are." The last part came out a bit bitterly.

            "Well, he will be fine, Captain," Phlox assured Jon. "He'll probably sleep for a few hours."

            Jon took the hint and nodded, fully prepared to leave, except that he didn't. Finally the comm signaled to him and he was forced to look away to hit the button. "Archer here."

            T'Pol's voice came over the intercom. " _We've translated the coordinates for Calabria, Captain. It is approximately three point five seven lightyears away._ "

            "Set a course," Archer ordered. "Maximum warp. I'll be there in a minute."

            " _Acknowledged_." He felt the ship start to hum around them.

            "Hoshi?" Archer asked, still lingering near Trip.

            "Stable," Phlox replied reassuringly. "They'll both be fine, Captain."

            Archer nodded curtly and finally left.

 

            The data pad the older Klingon had given them turned out to contain not only the coordinates for this Calabria, but also the entire record of Devarr's transaction with them—including the make and model of his ship and all the supplies he'd bought. Curious as to what Trip had said to inspire this generosity, Archer made Hoshi's first assignment during recovery translating the data pad _he_ had brought along, recording the comments that had been made at the station.

            "I don't get it, Captain," she admitted, shaking her head. She was still in Sickbay, but sitting up in the bed and restless to be back to work.

            "You don't know what they're saying?" Archer asked in surprise.

            "Oh, I know what they're saying," the Communications Officer replied in an odd tone of voice, "but I still don't understand what's going on." Archer looked at her questioningly. "Trip basically seems to be insulting the Klingons the whole time," Hoshi clarified. "I mean, right at the beginning, when you two had just walked in—he demands drinks and says you're both thirsty because you've been, well—" Archer raised his eyebrows at her reluctance. "He says you've been doing something obscene to the mothers of everyone in the room."

            "Well," Archer mentioned dubiously, "Trip _did_ say he was starting with an insult to find out who the leader of the group was."

            "It gets worse from there, sir," Hoshi assured him, handing him the pad with the translations.

            Archer read through them, eyes widening. He even winced a couple of times. "Ooh... Ouch... Mmmm... Now this one, I don't get."

            He pointed it out to Hoshi, who quickly explained, "That one's a play on words, sir. In this dialect of Klingon, the word for 'rowboat' is the same as the word for—"

            Archer held up a hand. "I get it now." He continued reading.

            "Then there was something about Devarr eating children?" Hoshi queried, taking the pad back from Archer when he was done. "Maybe that was mistranslated..."

            Archer shook his head. "Trip said that was based on an old Klingon legend. You should get him to tell you about it sometime. I guess he thought it would make the Klingons more willing to give Devarr up. Or something," he added, not certain about anything at this point. "What was that he said again, right before he slammed back two gigantic mugs of Klingon ale?"

            Hoshi pronounced the Klingon with some glee, then translated, "'This is not fit for my captain to drink. This is'"—she paused a moment, then amended—"'the urine of a domesticated animal.'"

            Archer had to agree. "Accurate assessment of the flavor."

            Hoshi sat back. "Sir, I know we don't know a _lot_ about Klingon social behaviors, but—I really don't see why you two weren't killed within about sixty seconds of setting foot in there."

            "Crazy people," a voice muttered behind Archer, and he turned to see that Trip was awake in the next bed, struggling to sit up.

            "Just stay where you are," Jon told him, taking his hand. "The doctor hasn't cleared you to leave yet, you know." Trip gave a long-suffering sigh. "What were you saying?"

            "Klingons don't like crazy people," Trip clarified, having apparently been listening to their conversation. "They're—uncomfortable around them, don't know what to do. It's not considered honorable to kill or even really attack someone who might be crazy." He shrugged. "And what could be crazier than two humans walking into a bar full of Klingons and insulting everything about them?"

            Jon decided now was not the time to remind Trip that he wasn't exactly human, no matter what he thought. "That was your plan?" he asked, playing it up. In reality he was slightly horrified, but it was good to see Trip smile a little. "Pretend you were crazy and hope they didn't call your bluff?"

            "They _did_ call it, sir," Trip responded lightly, rubbing the fading bruise on his chest. "They think you have to be crazy to accept the _kahHUK_ —the testing blow. But to stand up after it, you have to be touched by the hands of the gods—means they made you crazy for a special purpose, and other people shouldn't interfere."

            Jon was starting to wonder if they were right.


End file.
